


Walls

by glacis



Category: X Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The barriers between Mulder and Scully break down in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walls

Walls (rated NC-17 for sex and language -- no minors allowed) A Mulder/Scully sex romp by Glacis. Includes third season spoilers. If you're looking for a straight X File you're in the wrong basement. No infringement intended.

 

They weren't the visions he was used to associating with his partner. Maybe being dead had done something to him.

Mulder stared up at the ceiling, not quite believing the dream that he'd just had. Sure, he was used to not sleeping. Used to not being able to shut off his overly active mind and overly morbid imagination. One thing he was not used to, at least in twenty years, was waking up with a raging hard on, no way to relieve the underlying cause for the problem, and a heart rate that was triple it's normal speed.

Every damned night.

For three weeks.

Three long, lonely, frustrating weeks.

They had seemed to be getting back to where they had been before the mess in New Mexico. They'd caught the murderous human lightening bug, though there was no way they were going to be able to keep him locked up for the deaths of those people. They'd even managed to corral the homicidal bellhop, although he had been very sorry to see Clyde get so depressed over his psychic gift that he'd bagged himself. Literally. And things had been getting back to what passed for normal in the cramped basement office.

Then she'd done *it*.

She'd worn that blouse. That white blouse. The one with the little translucent stripes running vertically through it, as if that would make her look any taller. Or thinner. She was perfect just as she was... and the blouse proved it. Because the blouse gaped.

Not much.

Just enough.

Enough for him to see the barest hint of lace. Chantilly lace.

With no murderous bellboys attached.

And he'd lost it. Completely. Like a schoolboy. He'd caught himself before he actually moaned out loud, but there hadn't been anything he could do about the almost painful erection he had hidden behind his desk. He'd buried his face in the dreaded paperwork, answering her questions with monosyllables until she had given up and gone out to lunch on her own.

Then he'd locked himself in the tiny bathroom behind their office and relieved some of that pressure.

Hadn't lasted. As soon as she came back from lunch, she did it again. Leaned over to put her purse in her lower drawer. And damned if it didn't do it again. It gaped at him.

And he gaped at it.

That time she caught him, glanced down, saw the problem, and blushed. She shot him a Scully-patented "You're being an asshole" look, and fiddled with the button hole until the button was better seated in the material and the gap disappeared. He didn't know whether to cheer or cry. So he smiled at her with lopsided guilt and dove back in to the paperwork.

 

That had been three weeks ago. Since then, he had made an interesting discovery. Well, a few, actually.

Something about the experiences he had survived had stripped away a part of him that he had relied on to hide behind for a very long time. When his dad had torn him down, made him feel a useless fool, he had taken that sadness and hurt and shoved it behind a wall. When he thought of Samantha and his failure to protect her, he took that frustration and helplessness and shoved it back there too. When he thought of the few friends he had made, like Alex Krycek, who turned on him (though few in as devastating and destructive manner as Hurricane Alex had) he took the rage and disappointment and crammed it in with the other ugly shadows behind the wall. And when he thought of his Scully, he took the pain and the unspoken love, and the rampant lust, and shoved them as far back in with the others as he could push.

Now the wall had cracks.

The shadows had always escaped in his dreams, he knew that. Everyone else in the whole damned FBI might forget that he had a doctorate in psychology from fucking Oxford, but he didn't, and he knew exactly what he was doing and what it was doing to him. Normally he reacted as any highly trained professional would to his own psychological situation -- he ignored it. But something concrete and corporeal was adding itself to the nightmares that invaded his sleep. And in its own sweet way, the pleasure, denied as it was, hurt even worse than the pain.

He sighed. Stared at the lighted dial. Resigned himself to another very short night. Reached for the towel lying crumpled in the cramped space between his bed and the wall, and gently slid run his fingertips lightly over his still straining flesh.

That was another lesson he had had reinforced. A strong right hand was a boy's best friend. Better than taking the chance of losing his *real* best friend.

 

Dana looked at her partner in the half light that passed for daylight in the basement, and frowned with concern. He looked tired. Not that that was all that unusual. It had been a grueling month. She stopped typing and stared at her keyboard for a moment. Grueling was putting it mildly. She wasn't in much better shape herself.

Her fingers started to shake slightly, and she felt the moisture gather in her eyes. No. Not here. Not now. And not in front of him. She had a nasty suspicion that one of the reasons he obviously hadn't been sleeping well was because he was worried about her. He thought she should take some time off to deal with Melissa's death. She thought he should take some time off to deal with his father's death. Not to mention his own death and the bizarre spirit waltz he had pulled off to come back. Not that she believed in that stuff, she corrected herself hastily, then stifled a sigh. The circumstances *were* different. She had been close to Missy, even if they had squabbled, and she felt directly responsible for her death. The bastards had been trying to kill her and gotten her sister by accident, after all. Mulder had been estranged from his father, and the old man had had no one but himself to blame for what happened, at least from what she had been able to gather. Still.

She glanced up at him under her lashes, and caught him staring at her again. He'd been doing that a lot. She was getting antsy about it, because he had no idea that his concern was having an unusual effect on her. Or perhaps it would be better termed a usual effect that she was unable to combat due to emotional stress and physical exhaustion. Her physician's mind latched onto that thought like a life line under a drowning woman's hand, and she nodded unconsciously. That was it. She was vulnerable right now, and tired, and in pain. Ignore the fact that his face was the first thing she thought of in the morning, that she would catch herself staring at his wide hazel eyes, wondering what color they would turn when he was aroused. Would they go forest green, soft and inviting? Or deep chocolate brown, a pool so deep she could never climb back out once she fell in? No matter. He was the one solid person in her life, and she was reaching out to him for comfort. That was it.

Now if only she could stop dreaming and get some sleep, without his long, lanky, naked body lowering itself over her much smaller frame, his hands running pathways along her stomach, over her breasts, up the column of her throat until they cupped her face and brought her lips up to-

"Scully?"

"What?!?" She was shocked by the high pitched squeak that erupted from her mouth. The pencil she had tucked behind her ear flew out when she whipped her head to look at him, and the clatter as it flew against the opposite wall sounded loud in the stillness of the office.

He looked at her like a little boy staring at a wild cat that he'd accidentally cornered in the woods, partly fascinated, partly astonished, partly wary. His mouth was slightly open, and he ran his tongue over his lower lip, a habit he had when he was organizing his thoughts, trying to find just the right words to diffuse a tense situation. She stared at that lip, glistening in the murky half light, and nearly whimpered.

"Shit."

His jaw dropped at the unusual obscenity from his normally placid partner, and his eyes widened. She shook her head, unable to make eye contact, knowing he'd take one look at her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks and know exactly what the problem was.

"I need a break, Mulder. I'm going to ... take a walk."

He heard the last few words around the closing door, her heels clicking in a staccato rhythm as she very nearly ran down the corridor. He looked at the closed door for a heartbeat, then down at the sunflower seed he'd had halfway to his mouth when he'd noticed her abstraction.

"Was it something I said?"

 

The fresh air hadn't helped. She was still almost painfully sensitized to him. They'd sat side by side in Skinner's office, with Mulder taking up the slack in their side of the conversation because she kept drifting in and out of daydreams about just how soft his lips would feel against her skin and if the correlation between foot size and penis length really was true in this case and just how relaxed she'd have to be to get through making love with him without it feeling like she was engaged in carnal acts with Vlad the Impaler. Luckily, Skinner seemed to chalk her unusually quiet demeanor up to not enough sleep (little did he know how right he was) and overloaded emotional circuits (right again, but with a complete misunderstanding of underlying motivation). He and Mulder had an interesting discussion about motels and missing entrails. When Mulder ushered his still somewhat distracted partner out the door, down the hall and into a requisitioned Taurus for the trip out to rural Virginia, he was beginning to really worry.

"Um, Scully? You still with me?"

"All the way, Mulder."

He nearly drove off the side of the road trying to translate that cryptic phrase. The expression on her face didn't make it any easier.

"All the way where?"

"Wherever." She looked around, suddenly seeming to notice that they were no longer in FBI headquarters. "Which is where again?"

"Just outside of Springfield, Virginia? You *were* in the briefing we just got from Skinner, right? Or was that another one of those out of body experiences you keep denying having?"

She thought about responding to his teasing for a good, long nanosecond, then shut her eyes and ignored him. If she looked at him now, all two of the remaining inhibitions she had left might say to hell with it, join hands, and skip merrily off into the woods that were flashing by on either side of the road. And if that happened, she and Mulder would not be far behind, probably with her dragging him by the ear and him completely unaware of his near-future fate. She sighed. Another road trip.

He glanced over at her with concern. She was tired already, and they hadn't even gotten to the crime scene. And the little burg they were going to land in didn't have a lot of distractions. Just him, and Scully, and the local cops, and some dismembered dead bodies with no guts left to them, and a couple very small motel rooms. He sighed. Another road trip.

 

What a gawdawful day. They hadn't had time to even check in to the dank little motel Mulder had chosen, with his usual impeccable taste. Another gutless corpse had turned up, and they'd rushed right out to the scene and dug right in. Now they had a chance to take a break. Find someplace to bunk down for the night. Only one problem.

"Only one room?" He couldn't look at Scully. She was gonna kill him. With her eyes, first, then probably with her gun. "But we had reservations!"

The faded clerk behind the desk looked at him sadly but implacably. "Hunters convention. Squirrel hunters. Duck hunters. Deer hunters. You name it, they hunt it. And right now they're all in town to talk about it."

"You mean we have to share rooms because the town is overrun with Bambi killers?" A growl behind him caught his attention, and he turned to see two large, unhappy looking men with rifles standing behind them. He growled back and flashed his Glock, trying his damnedest to look mean. They started forward, and Scully interposed her petite figure between the men. She shot patented Scully-look number two -- "Do it and die" -- at them, and they immediately backed down. Mulder muffled his laughter and turned back to the clerk. Before he could get out another word, Scully cut in.

"I'm too tired to argue with you. We'll take the key."

Mulder didn't think it was the right time to tell her there was only a twin bed.

And no couch.

 

One bed.

A twin.

No couch.

How the hell did she end up in these predicaments?

He looked at the room. At the bed. At the eight inch strip of stained carpet along the front of the bed that was all there was of a floor. At the single, rickety chair leaning rather drunkenly against the wall, at the dim light bulb sticking haphazardly out from the faded wallpaper. Anywhere except at her. At IT.

One bed.

A twin.

No couch.

How the hell was he going to get out of this predicament?

Neither looked at the other as they dropped their bags on the floor. He sighed. She answered in kind, then it struck her. They were both standing less than two feet away from the one twin bed in their very small room with no couch and not enough floor space to stretch out on and a chair that would collapse under her weight, much less his, and suddenly she was wide awake.

"Well. Been a long day. I get first dibs on the shower."

"I think I'm going to ... go for a run. Wanna come along? No use taking a shower if you're just going to get sweaty again." The mental image of a sweaty Scully jockied for position with the mental image of a showering Scully, and he was suddenly grateful for the full cut of his trousers. Thankfully, she didn't look at him, just shook her head and grabbed the single towel.

"No. You have a good run. And don't get lost." He snorted derisively in reply and waited until she closed the door to the bathroom before rummaging for his sweats in the bag at the foot of the bed and stripping off his suit.

She looked around the tiny room on a fruitless search for the washcloth before she realized that it had also been hung in the little alcove outside the bathroom door. Cursing mildly under her breath, she cracked the door to reach out for the cloth, and froze. There was a mirror against the wall, right next to the miniscule sink. Directly opposite the bed. The bed where Mulder was even now standing, utterly nude, digging around in his bag for his shorts. Her breath stopped.

Long, long legs. Were they really six feet long or did they just seem that way? Lean flanks gently rounding into tight buttocks, then flaring upward into a truly spectacular back. Must be all that swimming, she thought for an endless moment, before he straightened and turned, his shorts in one hand, looking around for his running shoes. Her eyes widened in stunned appreciation, and in one lightning glance she swept him top to toes before silently closing the door and hiding behind it. The image replayed in her mind, in agonizing detail. Sure, she'd seen him naked or near to it a few times, but never when he was healthy and mobile ... and she was horny. Broad chest, light scattered hair along his collarbone, long, ropy arms, tight waist, mind skittering nervously away from the dark thatch of pubic hair and genitalia to glide along the front view of those incredible legs. As she darted under the shower, thankful for once for a dearth of hot water, her mind presented her with an undeniable fact.

In at least one case, foot size and penis length were an accurate reflection of one another.

 

He ran until he thought he had cleared his mind of all distractions. Then he had to come back to the motel room. He really couldn't stay out all night, he needed to get some rest if he was going to be any use to Scully on this case-- Scully. Asleep, maybe. In that little bitty bed.

Maybe he could stay out all night.

Chiding himself for being an idiot, he let himself quietly into the room. He looked into the murky darkness and focused on the small lump tucked into the corner of the bed, up against the wall, leaving the lion's share of the mattress for him. Of course, in this particular reality, the lion's share would have barely been enough for a common ordinary housecat. Mulder dampened that thought with grim determination and shot into the shower.

A few tepid quarts of shower water later, he gave up and toweled himself dry. Took a deep breath. Peeked out the door. Shut it again and leaned against it. This was going to be tough.

True, he'd spent many a night with Doctor Scully. But never in quite such tight surroundings, and never, never when they had just gone through death and life together, and most especially never with the raging hots for her like he'd been suffering for the last several weeks.

Maybe something in the fever he'd had had burned out his self control.

Muttering, "I am a professional," softly, over and over under his breath like a mantra, he gingerly lowered himself into bed beside his peacefully sleeping partner. When she didn't move a muscle, he let out a long, tired sigh and relaxed against the pillow.

This just might work.

She waited until she felt his body go limp and heard his breathing even out before she allowed her eyes to open. She had heard him in the shower, and fought a losing battle against envisioning him standing in the tiny stall, water streaming over that body, running soap over his silky skin, touching places she was finally admitting to herself she wanted to touch. As the night slipped into early morning, she admitted to herself that yes, she was in love with her partner, had been for some time, and wanted to make love with him so bad her teeth hurt from clenching back the invitation. Dwelling for hours on the ramifications if she was to make the first move had given her a headache, and she was frankly tired of thinking any more. She didn't want to lose his friendship, or risk their partnership. She didn't want their enemies to be able to use them against one another. She didn't want to face Skinner if the AD knew they were lovers. But of primary importance to her, she didn't want to have to look Mulder in the eye if she made the offer and he refused. All of these possibilities, but most especially the last one, kept her wandering hands firmly at her sides. Eventually, she too relaxed in sleep. And it just might have worked.

Then the dreams began.

Her small hands clutching his hair, pulling his face down to her breast, gasping for air as he suckled gently, weaving her legs around his, holding him closer. Revelling in his touch. Her skin flushed as the dream took shape, and she began to move restlessly, unaware of her companion's own increasing discomfort.

His long arms looping around her body, capable hands curving around her buttocks to fit her closely against his groin, the sensitized skin of his chest burning where she rubbed against him, her mouth open and greedy under his. Drowning in her kiss. Sweat began to bead along his forehead and his limbs twitched fitfully, gradually turning, seeking the heat of the small body lying so tantalizingly close.

Unconscious of his actions, caught up in the twilight world between dream and waking, his hands reached out to dance along the curve of her side, the swell of her breast under the cotton jersey she wore for pajamas. One foot tangled in the sheet, pulling it down, and the chill air prompted her to snuggle closer to his larger bulk. Once there, her hands began their own exploration. His skin really was as silky as it looked, delightfully soft and warm. Her fingers snagged on an erect nipple, and he moaned in response. She liked the sound so much she repeated the caress. The moan woke him up this time.

Fox Mulder didn't wake up well. It took him a few tries to get his eyes open, and usually when he did, it took him a few moments to figure out where he was and what he was doing. And whom he was holding. When the light finally dawned, he froze like a mouse in front of a snake. He was half on top of Scully, one hand cupping a full breast, the thumb still absent-mindedly circling the hard nipple, the other hand slipped back behind her buttocks with his fingers dangerously to the heat source... in fact, his fingertips were reporting a suspicious moisture to his dazed mind. His eyes went huge, and he stared down with his mouth ajar, knowing, just knowing that she was going to kill him now.

Dana looked up at the man intimately caressing her, and considered the possibilities. Sure, Mulder could have been waking up from a wet dream about Miss March, or it might have been his reaction to too many nights of celibacy and an overdose of hardcore porn. Except for two things. He'd been barely awake when he started kissing her, and she had awakened immediately and thoroughly. And when he'd touched her ass, sliding down to grip her flesh with undisguised urgency ... he'd called her Scully. He knew exactly who he was groping, and his subconscious had removed her greatest fear. Let it progress, her mind screamed at her. It is right. Skinner need never know. Your enemies, and his, need never know. And if you don't let it blossom now, then he will never make a move again, and YOU will never know. And that would be the biggest waste of all.

Mulder finally reacted, starting to draw his hands away and attempting a babbled apology, but all he could get out was, "Well, shit!" She grinned up at him, and he paused, mid- movement.

"Does this mean you're not going to shoot me? Uhm, again?"

She suppressed the grin and looked at him with mock solemnity. "I'll only shoot you ... if you stop."

He looked at her in shock for the space of a heartbeat, then cracked up. She couldn't resist, and joined him for a moment before reminding him of what he had begun. Reaching up to snare his head in her hands, winding her fingers through the short silky strands of his hair, she pulled him to her. Just like in her dream. Only so much better, because it was real.

"Okay, Scully, I'm going to run with this, because it sounds like you're wanting this almost as much as I do. But I have to tell you, if you morph into an alien in the middle of this, I may have to shoot myself." She drew back to study his face in the half light, cocking a brow at his serious expression, then swooped down to finally suck on that full lower lip like she'd been wanting to for three years. When she was done for the moment with that lip, she dove into his mouth with her tongue, leaving him in absolutely no doubt that this was something she wanted.

When she finally allowed him a ragged breath, he smiled at her, that rare, beautiful, little boy smile that lit up his whole face. As he opened his mouth to speak, she slipped two fingers into it. His lips closed around them automatically, and she closed her eyes as he started to suck. Gathering her thoughts for a precious few seconds, she commanded him, "Shut up and make love to me, Mulder. We'll figure out the details tomorrow."

He smiled around her hand, then dipped his head again, leaving her fingers for the slightly salty skin between her breasts, running his tongue along her ribcage in a southerly direction. Scully's eyes widened in turn, and a grin caused dimples to bracket her mouth. Yes. This could end up much better than a dream. Now if he proved as open to extreme possibilities here as he did in other areas of his life, they were in for a wild ride.

Mulder smiled against her skin as he finally tasted all the places he'd been dreaming about for much longer than he'd ever admit, even to himself. As his fingers settled into the curves of the back of her thighs, he shivered with anticipation. She tasted as incredible as he'd imagined, and her responsiveness made him seriously wonder about anyone who could ever call her an Ice Queen. No frigid women, just bad lovers, sang through his head as she started to writhe under his tongue. It was going to be one hell of a night. And if he had his way, he thought hazily as she spilled over into orgasm and he slid along her length to bury himself tenderly in her depths, it was going to last a long, long time.

"And the walls came tumbling down."

"Wha-hunh?"

"Nothing, Scully. Just ... nothing."

 

"I feel like I've been ridden hard and put away wet."

His dry words, spoken in a voice husky from the number of times she had made him scream the night before, woke her with a grin. Rolling over to stare at his beard-shadowed face and sleepy eyes in the early morning sunlight, she felt as if someone had turned a heater on in her chest. He looked good enough to eat, and she told him so, not in words, but with her hands. And her lips. And her eyes.

When they calmed down enough to actually talk, Mulder realized that it wasn't that he had a hard time waking up in the morning, it was that he had a hard time waking up without Dana in the morning. When he told her, she laughed. Then she sobered, and leaned against his chest, following the pattern of sunlight on his forearm with her fingers.

"What are we going to do, Mulder?"

He was quiet for a long moment, then kissed her softly behind the ear, evoking a shiver that made him cuddle her closer.

"My gut instinct says take the happiness and run." He waited for a response, but she didn't make it easy for him. "We are together. We can keep this secret, and still be partners. I don't know what I would do without you, Scully. You know that."

She nodded and twisted to meet his eyes, intense hazel green tangling with bright blue, and she couldn't turn away. "So we take it a day at a time."

"A night at a time." She grinned slightly at his take on the situation, and reached up to kiss him gently. "And we see what happens. You know that I couldn't love you more than I already do, than I always have, right?"

She traced his serious mouth with one fingertip, lingering on the center of his full lower lip. "Me, too, Mulder. Me too."

She turned back to the sunlight streaming through the window, then levered herself off the bed and toward the bathroom. Looking over her shoulder to find his eyes fixed on her naked buttocks, she grinned and gestured for him to join her. "Time to get up and at 'em, Mulder. We have a killer to catch." She waved at the open door, indicating the shower. "Wanna join me?"

He looked at her seriously for one more moment, murmuring just loudly enough for her to hear, "In everything." Then he followed his partner into the tiny room and the new day. Smiling to himself, he held on to one thought.

There was a lot to be said for dreams and twin beds. And cracked walls.

end


End file.
